


True Colours

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [12]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum Patient Jerome Valeska, Character Study, Gen, I couldn’t help myself, Minor Violence, One Shot, POV Jerome Valeska, Pre-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, Reposted bc I decided to add a little more to it yk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: Jerome isn’t allowed visitors. They do say rules are meant to be broken.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514969
Kudos: 23





	True Colours

Jerome isn’t allowed visitors. Safety reasons, they tell him. He doesn’t need to ask who’s safety they’re so concerned about, because there’s no doubt that it’s not his own. If anything, it’s more likely theirs. Still, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Not only isn’t there anyone who would come visit him - for sentimental reasons that is, if he did ever so slightly desire a visit from someone one day, who would stop him? First step to stopping a problem is admitting there is one and Arkham Asylum isn’t quite there yet, much to Jerome’s pleasure. A bit of corruption never hurt anyone, right?

They do say rules are meant to be broken, a saying Jerome follows religiously. It certainly seems he’s not the only one because the no-visitors rule didn’t last very long. Just this morning the guard waking him up at who-knows-what o’clock told him he has just what they told him earlier he wasn’t allowed to get, a visitor. Who this visitor they sacrificed this rule for, Jerome doesn’t know. No one seems to want to tell him. Either way, he’s intrigued and he accepts. 

The walls around him are as dull as the ones of his cell and most likely as boring as the personality of the person who designed it. One day in this place could make any man go insane, just from the interior alone. The clock on the wall ticks loudly and it’s only now Jerome figures what time it actually is. Seven, it reads, an hour of the day Jerome has almost forgotten existed. The chair he’s seated in is uncomfortable and there is an ache in his spine when he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. It seems his visitor is late. 

The thought barely gets to cross his mind as the door behind him opens. Footsteps approach him from behind, pausing seemingly right behind him. They do sound oddly like fancy dress shoes and several names pop up in his head. Bruce Wayne is one of them. It’s not an impossible scenario, Bruce Wayne, his billionaire self, paying his way in here for who knows what reason - presumably a part of his little hero complex. On the other hand, there’s an oddly sweet scent with an ever so slightly bitterness to it he hasn’t smelt before anywhere near Bruce Wayne. It’s much unlike the concoction of smells of money, expensive knitted sweaters and a too musky perfume to be him. It’s familiar in a way, though Jerome can’t quite place a finger on where it’s from.

It’s not Bruce Wayne who takes a seat on the other side of the table, though Jerome is far from disappointed, quite the opposite actually. He’s pleased, thrilled really. The sound of dress shoes - dark brown rather than black - hitting the floor with every unsure step the man takes is loud in the otherwise silent room. The chair scrapes against the floor. Hands tug at the fancy fabrics of the tailored jacket, fix the tie around his neck and adjust the glasses seated on the bridge of his nose. Jerome catches every movement. He can see every tremble of the hands, no matter how small. It brings a smile to Jerome’s face, blending in with the permanent one already there. 

"Hello, brother." 

Jeremiah shifts ever so subtly in his seat. Jerome doesn’t need more than that and the evasive eyes to know he’s uncomfortable. He thrives on the feeling he knows runs through Jeremiah. Two simple words and his brother’s serious expression, ruler-straight back and seemingly calm demeanour is proven to be nothing but a facade, a mere mask put on to try to prove a point. To show Jerome doesn’t have any effect on him when in reality they both know that’s not true. Jeremiah is skilled with masks, wears them like a second layer of skin, but Jerome sees right through them. 

"Such a pleasant surprise, Jeremiah. If I’d known you were my seven o’clock, I would have dressed nicer." He tilts his chair back, hands gesturing at the striped attire that is his uniform. He catches Jeremiah eyeing the chair and tilts further back ever so slightly. Jeremiah expects him to fall, he’s fairly sure, but he doesn’t. The legs of the chair hit the floor again with a bang. He savours the reaction he gets; a flinch. 

"I see your new rich life is treating you well. Did your new mommy and daddy get you that suit?" Jerome asks, voice laced with artificial care and interest. Not a wrinkle is to be seen anywhere in the fabric and Jeremiah’s fancy outfit almost looks unused, either that or like it has been ironed while wearing it. Now that the thought crosses his mind, that does sound very much like a good idea. He can hear Jeremiah’s pained cries already and see him squirming and writhing beneath him like the little snake he is. How good it would feel to press the hot plate of metal of the iron against the fabric of Jeremiah’s jacket and watch it burn, right through the shirt underneath and finally press into his skin. Mother isn’t around to stop him from hurting her innocent, pure little angel now, is she? 

"And I see the circus didn’t treat you well." Seems like this little snake has a bite. That is something new, and very unlike sweet little Jeremiah. He would never say anything like that with mother around, would he? The prison they currently sit in the middle of must bring his brother some sort of security and comfort, making him feel bold enough to talk back. How... funny. Jeromes laughter fills the room. "We both know you’d be in here with me if you’d stayed," he says. Jeremiah’s lips form a thin line and watching him try to look all superior and better than Jerome makes him want to laugh again. Jerome sees right through this mask as well. "Right where you belong."

"You like to believe we’re the same, that we share the same mindset, that I’m just like you. Insane. But you’re wrong." Jerome does nothing but grunt in response, letting him continue. "We might look the same, but what’s on the inside is what makes us different. You’re insane, Jerome. Always have been, always will be. I’m not like that. No matter how much you see yourself in me like I’m the mirror you don’t own, I’m not you." Jeremiah rises from his chair. Jerome mirrors his action and watches his brother’s muscles tense visibly. 

"Jerome." His voice is quiet and it brings back memories of glossy eyes filled with big crocodile tears summoned the moment their mother’s gaze fell on little Jeremiah, quivering hands clutching at his sweater and voice quiet and trembling as he utters that day’s lies and fabrications. Which story is it this time, Jerome would wonder. Just how far will he go today? A shove, an insult, or attempted murder? There had been so many of those, Jerome had lost count. Where Jeremiah got the inspiration for all of those little lies of his was his own mind of course. Deep down, in the core of his being Jeremiah is just like him. All he needs to admit that, is a little help. "You were born bad."

Jerome nods ever so softly. "Born bad, huh?" He takes a step to the side, pushing the chair he had been sitting in towards the table. Jeremiah mirrors Jerome’s action. "Is that why you made her think I tried to kill ya? I never did, but you know that, don’t you?" They continue around the table, Jeremiah now struggling to keep his composure and act as if his heart isn’t beating harshly against his ribcage and his palms aren’t sweating. "Everyone turned against me because of you, slowly but surely. Then one night, you disappeared, running away like a coward. They all gave up on me, poisoned by your stories, your little lies, your fabrications made to convince yourself you weren’t the crazy one of us." Jeremiah opens his mouth to protest, spew more lies and excuses. Because smart, innocent Jeremiah is a sane man. Jerome’s the crazy one, though it does take one to know one. 

"You know, it hurts me, really." Pressing a hand to his chest, right above his heart, he takes another step. Jeremiah follows suit. "It hurts to see you like this, always has." He can hear the familiar almost sugary sweet tone in his voice. "I want all the best for you. I want you to shine. I want you to be yourself. I want to help. Let big brother help you find yourself, please." 

Jeremiah’s superiority seems to vanish for a moment as he stumbles around the table, matching Jerome’s speed to keep the table between them. As soon as Jerome changes direction, Jeremiah does the same, expensive leather shoes squeaking as they rub against the floor. "Stay away from me," he says, eyes stern, though his voice trembles - genuinely, unlike all the other times - as he attempts to keep his composure. Jerome can see his hands itching to grab the chair as he passes it and build another barricade between them, or even use it on him. He doesn’t. Disappointing. How Jerome would love to see his sane brother let it all out and hit him over the head with that exact chair. 

"There’s something trapped inside of you, something begging to be let free. Your pride is a locked cage and I have the key. Let me unlock it, Jeremiah." The table creaks under Jeromes weight as he stands on it, towering above Jeremiah who looks at him with eyes filled with terror. The reactions merely feed Jerome’s desires. "You’re crazy," Jeremiah squeaks, backing away as Jerome hops off the table to finally stand before him after all these years. "You’re as crazy as I am." Jeremiah stumbles while Jerome merely strolls after him. "You just won’t admit it. I’ll set you free, show you exactly who you are. Exactly how alike we really are." Jeremiah backs right into the wall and Jerome follows, getting right up in his brother’s unblemished, scar-free face. "All you have to do, is let me." 

Jeremiah’s skin is soft beneath his fingers. His brother lets him touch him, or perhaps not, he thinks as he catches the way Jeremiah presses his entire body against the wall behind him. He runs his fingers across the almost flawless skin - skin much unlike his own - of his cheek, jaw and chin. He takes in the sight of the healthy, soft looking lips - very much unlike his chapped ones. Jerome recognises the scent he breathes in as candy floss - strawberry flavoured perhaps? - with a hint of coffee every once in a while when Jeremiah exhales heavily. Jeremiah drinks coffee now, does he? Faint memories sneak their way into Jerome’s mind. Memories of the smell of too strong coffee in the air, the sound of rain pouring outside the trailer and the disgusted expression on Jeremiah’s face as he takes a tiny sip of Jerome’s half-empty cup. He’d hated coffee back then, though times do change, don’t they. Memories of candy floss, popcorn and every once in a while - if they, though mostly Jerome, were feeling extra bold - a stuffed toy stolen right from the booths while no one was looking. They’d stuff everything they could in their pockets, slip away out of sight and eat until they couldn’t eat anymore. How old had they been then? Four? Five? 

"Remember everything we’d do together, Jeremiah?" Jeremiah eyes him with those big innocent eyes of most of their youth, but doesn’t speak. "Everyone we’d mess with. Everything we’d steal. Stealing is bad, you’d say to me, yet you’d always tag along. Your morals and ethics disappeared as soon as you caught sight of what your little heart desired. Some candy here, a stuffed bear there. The feeling was thrilling, wasn’t it?" Jerome’s lips form a smile. "Any moment someone could catch us, and they sure did. Sure, they let us go every so often if you gave them those innocent eyes long enough, but not always. They’d yell at us, take everything back that we stole and send us on our way with threats of what would happen next. Then, your so called 'morals' started returning and you’d start snitching on me. Couldn’t handle any negative reaction from mommy dearest, could you? They all believed your little lies, of course. Who got all the beatings then?" Jerome’s voice seems to become louder and louder as he speaks. Jeremiah cowers under him. 

Jerome’s voice quiets down to the point it’s eerily calm. "You know, I loved you once. Hard to believe, I know, but I really did," he says. "You were just like me, yet yourself. We looked the same, we thought the same. We were unstoppable. Think of everything we did, you and I. Think of what we could do together now. We could burn this city to the ground and build our own. Our own world. One just for you and me." Is there a slight spark in Jeremiah’s eyes, or are Jerome’s eyes playing tricks on him? "Come on, I know you want to."

The punch is surprising, yet positively so. It leaves his nose bleeding, his lips pulled into an ever so slightly bloody smile and he finds himself stumbling backwards and tripping over his own feet. The floor is hard beneath him. Though not as hard as the hit that comes next upon his head, too hard to be Jeremiah’s fist. The room around him slowly disappears and the laughter fades with it.


End file.
